The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group
by fetch-thranduilion
Summary: What do people like Raistlin, Ken Ichijouji, and Maedhros do once they realize the extent of their evil? Group counseling, of course! But not everyone who comes has quite recovered...
1. Starting With A Bang

This story involves a huge disclaimer list, so I'm just going to get it out of the way here. Maedhros and Feanor and all allusions to Arda belong to Tolkien's estate, Ken and Lucemon and everything "digi" are copyrighted under Toei Animation, and Raistlin and Fizban and all their stuff is the property of Wizards of the Coast. Oh, and I suppose I should mention Finding Nemo, too. Whew!

This story is corny angst on purpose with stupid humor thrown in to alleviate the cheesy tension. The frail of heart and/ or literary critics would do well to turn away now, lest they fall into the shadows never to return.

Wait, what?

The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, Chapter One: Starting with a Bang

The dark-haired elf leaned back in his chair, fiddling absently with the artisan tools in his pockets, and eyed his eldest son with distaste. His son had cajoled him into going to this absurd meeting and, like a weak-backboned fool, he had submitted. There was no need for him to be here. He had done no wrong, he needed no help. The only reason he'd agreed was to get out of Mandos on a leave of absence, short though it may be. After long, tiresome millennia of waiting for the world to end, that place was starting to get really boring.

His cold grey eyes swept the room: apparently lots of other people had agreed with his pessimistic views, for the inter-planes-of-reality conference room his son had described as packed full at the first meeting was nearly deserted for this, the second. Aside from his son, busy preparing at the front of the room, his russet hair gleaming even in the dim torchlight, there were only two other figures in the room besides himself. The difference between the two people was striking. One was a young man, a boy even, sitting stiffly and seriously in the first row of chairs, his blue eyes downcast as he murmured to a small green bundle on his lap. His clothes were drab, grey, and formal; his dark hair fell in slash-like bangs into his eyes and mirrored the depths of the deepest ultramarine seas in its hue. Strangely poised and reserved, he nonetheless possessed an aura of…something…around him. Though human—the elf scrutinized—the youthful features were almost elvish in their seeming delicateness but barely hidden inner strength. This boy has a fire within him somewhere, thought the elf. Fire, but no discernable darkness. In his appearance and self-poise the boy seemed strong, intense, but pure. The elf wondered if perhaps the boy had found the wrong meeting; purity was not to be suspected in this particular room.

The expected darkness was instead provided by the other being, huddled concealed in the very back row of chairs in a mass of velvet black robes, his hood pulled over his head as he coughed softly. Frailty marked his every breath; beneath his hood his eyes glittered strangely.

The man's shoulders slumped in exasperation as someone began pounding on the wall behind him. "I say," came a doddering yet energetic old voice, "am I allowed in yet? Will you be leaving soon, or do I have time to go"

"You can leave in search of your hat, which I believe you misplaced during the casting of your transportation spell, and return in time to escort me away," came a soft but penetrating voice from somewhere under the folds of black fabric. "I assure you I have no plans to escape your supervision, and had I any you would no doubt be aware of them."

"Huh? Eh?"

"Just go if you want. I have no power to command you." The voice was bitter, with a touch of wistfulness.

"Awfully nice of you to say that. Be good while I'm gone. Drat! Where'd my hat go, anyway?" The voice outside in the hall faded away, the man in black robes slouched over again, and the elf smiled wryly. So he was not the only one chaperoned to this idiotic place.

His gaze wandered idly to the "clock" on the wall. The meeting would begin when the large arrow pointed at the 12 and the small arrow pointed at the 7, his son had said. That time…was now.

Apparently his son was also aware of it, striding around the table to face his "meeting." With his left hand, he made some last-minute adjustments to the papers and scrolls lying on the tabletop. His right arm hung at his side, no fingers poking out of the long sleeve. The dark-haired elf's son did not write with his left hand by choice.

Clearing his throat, the elf's son gestured for the man in the hooded cloak to sit farther forward. The offer was rejected with a shake of the black-cowled head, and the red-haired elf began to speak.

"I…ah…guess this is everyone." Disappointment registered clearly on his face and flickered in his grey eyes. His father smiled, knowing his son had lost their little fight. These meetings were pointless, and now the redhead knew it.

His son pressed on anyway—"Well, it's time to begin the second…"when suddenly, without warning, the door to the meeting room burst off its hinges as something outside exploded. The dark-haired elf was flung to the ground by the blast but was soon back on his feet, hand grasping at his side for a sword that wasn't there, that he was not permitted to take. Smoke filled the room, but as it cleared the elf looked around.

His son was fine, merely shaken and rather foolishly positioned; the table had been overturned and he'd apparently toppled back along with it. Climbing out, he wiped his eyes to rid them of the specks of dust floating everywhere.

The midnight-haired boy crouched in the shadow of a gigantic, winged, green, insect-like creature standing protectively over him. In one hand the boy clutched a strange grey and black device; it shone for a second and the creature was gone, shrinking to become the pale green blob the boy had spoken to softly earlier. He brought a monster, wondered the elf. How came this boy to have control over Morgoth's demons? Perhaps he did belong in this sorry gathering after all.

It was not hard to locate the black-robed man, as the dust made him cough and hack furiously. Pressing a handkerchief to his mouth, he struggled to stand, grasping for something, anything, to help him up. The boy ran over but was stopped from supporting the man with a single look within the dark hood—the man had glared, perhaps. Taken aback, the boy stepped slowly away as painfully but proudly the man rose to his feet, handkerchief still muffling his coughs.

"Am I late? The door was locked," chirped a childish voice from the doorframe. A figure stood silhouetted against the clearing smoke, then became visible.

The elf blinked. The elf stared. The elf downright goggled, which elves do rarely and he usually did next to never. His confounded look was echoed on the dumbfounded face of his son, on the expressive features of the boy, in the abrupt posture of the dark-cloaked man. If the youthful, pure-looking boy had seemed out of place in this sullen collection, the newcomer belonged on another planet altogether.

Standing in the doorway was an angel.

a/n: Hey! How'd an elf from Arda recognize an "angel?" It makes no sense! The authoress must be stretching things for her own twisted purposes…oh well. To conclude…

Wow, how'd you find this convoluted thing? It doesn't really belong anywhere. Anyway, I hope you liked it. Maybe you've read/seen all the stories I'm using, maybe not. If you have, I hope you recognize everybody and bear with my portrayal of the black-robed one. I've known about him for less than a week and am still trying to get under his (freaky golden) skin…even though in that one week I've read nine books featuring him…yeah. As I was saying, if you haven't read/seen the books/anime I'm referencing, I think I'm going to give enough information about all the characters for you to understand what little plot takes place. I know everybody's relatively anonymous in the story right now, but stick with me, please! They'll all be introduced soon enough…I won't reveal any identities/sources beyond what's in my disclaimer until they've all given their names. But you're free to guess.

See you all (hopefully) for Chapter Two, in which they recite the pledge…


	2. Dead People Society

None of this is mine. Most of it doesn't even belong to the same people. The only thing that's mine is Maedhros's bitterness towards his father; I've never read anything that says how they reacted when they met again in Mandos but I had a feeling that even though he loved his father very much, Mae'd be more than a little ticked off at him…and maybe even a tad ashamed…ah, just read.

The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, Chapter Two: Dead People Society

Coughing into the crook of his handless right arm, the auburn-haired elf stood up, balancing his supple weight against the overturned table. The angel boyishly blinked at him in expectation.

"Um…no, you're right on time, but I think you've got the wrong group…" The elf hoped the angel would understand his language; he had been guaranteed the meeting-room automatically translated all languages for those using it, but if the angel had the wrong number he couldn't be sure if it would work.

"Nope. This is the one." The angel calmly walked in, white toga trailing on the floor behind him. "Messy place, though. At least it's not cramped like the Dark Area."

"It's messy because you trashed it with that explosion," snapped the elf's father caustically. "Now get out. This is a meeting of…"

"I know. I'm one."

"One what?" asked the boy, fingering the device that had made his monster grow.

The angel looked at him, face open and innocent but also slightly hurt. "Why, the same as you, I guess. A Recovering Evil Madman. This is the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, isn't it?"

"But…but…" stammered the boy, dark bangs falling into his eyes, "but you're an angel."

A shadow entered the angel's face. "Looks can be deceiving," he replied, his velvet voice now dripping malice. "Remember that, human. I suspect you've prompted the same disbelief in others with that pretty façade." The boy grew rigid, but the angel paid him no more notice, picking a chair up from amid the debris on the ground and sitting complacently down. Gone was the cloud from his face. Blond curls shining, he looked just like a little boy…but there was no doubt in the red-haired elf's mind that this angel belonged here, here in this coven of fallen souls.

Turning to his father, the red-haired elf gestured at the blown-off door. "Father, you have your tools, right? Can you fix that?"

"Can I fix it?" his father asked pointedly. "Years of labor at my forge spent hard in study, the creation of artifacts so magnificent even the Valar coveted them, and you ask me if I can fix a door? I have not grown senile in death, my son." Nevertheless he got up to inspect the door.

Ashen-faced, the boy's gaze followed him. "In…death? You're…dead?"

"As am I," asserted the red-haired elf, "though granted temporary substance for this task."

"I'm dead too," offered the angel, obviously enjoying the boy's shocked dread. "Humans like you killed me."

Whirling around, the boy's blue eyes fixed on the hooded man standing aloof, red-specked handkerchief at his side. "What about you?" demanded the boy wildly. "Are you dead or alive?"

The reply was soft, a bitter yet thoughtful and vaguely surprised whisper. "I'm not really sure. Somewhere in between, I suppose. My case is, and has always been…"-- his eyes glittered within his dark cowl-- "…unique." As before, the boy shrank back. "Then I'm the only one here who's actually…alive?" he asked wonderingly.

"Such is the price many pay for their errors. You were fortunate," said the robed man. "But death will come to you in its own time. Even now, I see…" He turned away, strangely distracted and a little sad-sounding. "Never mind what I see."

This conversation getting a bit too morbid, the russet-haired elf changed the subject just as his father replaced the last screw on the now perfectly repaired door. "As I was saying earlier, welcome to the second meeting of the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group. My name is Maedhros, and I'm to conduct this evening's meeting. We begin by reciting the pledge. Does anyone need a copy?" The angel walked up and received a piece of parchment from the elf, then returned to his seat amid the rubble.

"Please stand."

Glowering, the angel stood up again. Maedhros's father raised an amused eyebrow. He's enjoying watching me struggle, thought Maedhros. The worse this goes for me, the better pleased with himself he'll get. This must go off well—if only to wipe that smirking smile off his face. His arrogance ruined my life. It will not rule my death!

Aloud, he instructed the others.

"Place your left hand behind your back and your right hand in the air." Maedhros demonstrated, blushing as he raised his handless right arm, sleeve flopping awkwardly but still covering the stump. The other four matched his pose, staring at the empty space where his hand should have been. Swallowing, he continued.

"We will now recite the Pledge." And this will be easy for you, dear father. Oathtaking has always been so simple for you. Lightly you swear, but painfully we fall. Well, this is one oath I don't mind taking. I will redeem this family, even if you don't think it needs to be saved.

Slowly, solemnly, the five spoke to the dimness, the black-robed man stifling a cough in the middle. As one, they intoned.

"**I am a nice guy. Not a ruthless evil machine. If I am to change this image, I must first change myself. People are friends, not fools**."

"Ah, who're we kidding?" asked the angel cynically, ripping his parchment in two. "They're nuts, the whole lot of 'em. They're all idiots!"

"You are an idiot," replied the dark-clad man in quiet but penetrating tones, like he was pronouncing some supreme sarcastic judgment. The angel turned to him, scowling. "Who asked you?" he asked in an aggravated tone. "And take off that hood! I like to look a person in the eyes when I talk to them."

"As you wish," replied the young man with a strange tone of grim satisfaction, and, shaking his long white hair out of his eyes, revealed his face. Lucemon had a grimace ready to greet the hidden face, but as the man drew back his hood the angel retreated in terror. Maedhros sucked in his breath and forced himself to go on, to ignore the man's coloring and the shape of his pupils. Don't judge on appearances: that must be our moral for today, he thought as he began speaking.

"Now. We are here to hear each other's stories, to help each other climb out of this dark hole into which we have all fallen. We can do it, but only with each other's help. I know it's hard if you're used to being alone…"-- here every set of eyes in the room watching him narrowed, one pair grey, one sky-blue, one storm-blue, and one eerily golden—"but you must all learn to support others and let yourself be supported. Introductions first. When anyone says their name, greet them. I'll demonstrate. My name is Maedhros."

"Hullo, Maedhros," droned the audience as one.

"It has been…" He checked some calculations he'd been doing before the start of the meeting. "…two hundred and forty-eight human years, seven months, and three days, since my last great work of evil."

The strange man clapped softly and sarcastically; the boy stared; the angel cried "Wow! That long?" then fell silent and Maedhros continued, head held high, needing to get his story out in the open.

"For long years my brothers and I fought murderously to fulfill the Oath we swore to our father, that we would reclaim the sacred jewels he made from anyone save us who dared possess them. One by one we fell, until my eldest, though younger, brother and I were the only ones left. Though it looked as though we had a chance, albeit a faint one, to come into our own without further shedding of innocent blood…I convinced my brother it would be better to steal the jewels and run."

Through tear-blurred vision, Maedhros saw his father tense, smolder. Raising his fair flame-colored head higher still, he finished the tale of his last great sin, the end of which he had hidden from his father for nearly two hundred and fifty years.

"So we murdered the guards and fled, like common barbarian thieves. One jewel each we took, the last two jewels for the last two brothers. But…our right to those sacred objects through our many and grievous wrongs had become void. The crystal seared my flesh with unbearable pain, and the weight of all I had done came crashing down on me with the sound of the cymbals of Doom. The futility and blackness of my life, coupled with the physical agony of holding the jewel, led me to take one final life." He paused, almost afraid and hating the memory. "My own."

"I burned to death, burned away as my spirit howled into the Void words of hopelessness and despair. Wailing aloud, I cast myself and the jewel into a fissure of smokes and flames…and awoke in the halls of Mandos, jewelless but burdened with the dark deeds of my dreadful life. Too late have I always repented! When it can do no more good, save no more lives, then, at last, uselessly except to make me hate my Oath even more, am I sorry!" Breaking off, he turned to his father. "All this I suffered, and my brothers suffered, and others suffered at our hands, for the sake of one person's dying wish," he accused icily. "Maintain you your claim that you do not belong here?"

"You took your life? With the Silmaril finally regained? You told me you died fighting an enemy you could never defeat, and cast the Silmaril into the fire to keep him from getting it! You lied to me!" The dark-haired elf's furious voice rang through the chamber. "And you dare condemn me, who only sought to reclaim what was mine?"

"I did not lie, Father," Maedhros said more gently. "The enemy I lost to was the Oath and the Curse."

Silence.

The black-robed man coughed softly into his golden-tinged hand.

Silence.

The boy hugged his little green monster.

Silence.

Meekly the angel put up his hand.

"I'll go next," he offered.

a/n: Wow! We found out a big one character's name! All right! Hey, elves are really melodramatic, aren't they? Come to think of it, every guy in that room has a flair for melodrama…must come with being a Recovering Evil Madman. Or maybe just an Evil Madman, Recovering or no.

Replies to Reviewers:

Mirowood: Thanks again for asking me to Hitchhiker's. I told my family about the "So Long And Thanks For All The Fish" song and they all cracked up. Hope you're a little less lost on this story now…what with the one name being known now and all…find and watch Tsubasa, by the way. It's good. I swear. But the manga's better.

TiggerBaby: Hey, there's nothing wrong with being obsessed with smileys. I myself am addicted to parentheses, Blind Guardian, and elves, yet still manage to live some semblance of a normal life. Glad you liked the story so far, weird and vague and cheesy though it may be. It's going to be weirder. (And cheesier.) (See! Here I go with parentheses again! Is there a Recovering Parentheses User Support Group?)

I found some slight errors in the text of this that I feel obliged to point out but am to lazy to fix. 1.) The correct title should probably be Recovering Evil Madmen's Support Group, with a possessive, but I like the sound of just "Madmen." Plus I'm even not sure about the grammar there. (Not a good thing…I wanna be an English major.) 2.) When the robed man says he has always been "unique," he's stretching the truth a bit…there was that little matter about him following in the footsteps of the evil mage sharing his essence…but more on that later. 3.) Maedhros's brothers did not fall "one by one" in the sense that over time they each kicked the bucket. They all lasted a good long time, then three were killed in the same battle, then a later fight picked off the two youngest. His other brother's still out there somewhere, singing his angsty musician's heart out…

Okay. Disclaimers are done. Conscience is clear. Well, mine is. I can't say the same about these guys!


	3. Everything Blows Up in Maedhros's Face

Boy am I stupid. I accidentally deleted all my fanfiction off my computer . So yeah…if you're also reading Two Story Town, I swear I'm going to continue it; I have tons more written and even more planned, but it all died on me, as did the last 3 chapters of this one. I hate being computer illiterate.

I'm going to reply to reviewers up here instead of at the end, because I'm so grateful to be getting reviews at last that I can't wait till the end of the chapter to acknowledge everyone. So here goes.

**Mirowood:** Yeah, if you read the first chapter's disclaimer, it does list "Finding Nemo" as an inspiration for this story…as to your plot comment, I use Mark Twain's foreword to Huck Finn as my reply: "Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot." No offense.

**Sangfroid:** Cool pseudonym! Thanks for your much-appreciated compliments…I was having a rough day (finals etc.), checked my email, and…suddenly everything was okay. And I love Maglor too. (spoiler: he features in the sequel to this…yes, I am planning a sequel…but it won't be up for a while.)

**Yael3000:** Hannon le, mellon-nin. If I were to go a whole summer without my closet boy, I would miss him too. You'll have to come over and say "hey" to him every once in a while…but I'm afraid he isn't much of a conversationalist, and if you feel like dancing, he flat-out refuses to lead. He kind of just stands there. BTW, once you type Alexia's story, can I read it?

**Dalamar Nightson:** Wow…since reading ESGAME I have something to live up to and I'm not sure if I can, but I'll do my best. This is the cough drop chapter, and I swear I thought of it before reading your story, so I am not ripping you off or anything. It just looks that way…

Okay, that's everybody. Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the cardboard elf in my closet and the crazy half-elf princeling in my head who keeps yammering about indoor plumbing and could I _please_ update his story because he's getting really bored…and even he isn't really mine but his author never gave him much of a personality, just a really complex pedigree…and I oughta know because I did his family tree for the sheer geeky heck of it…

Anyway. I've babbled too long.

The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, Chapter Three: Everything Blows Up in Maedhros's Face

"My name is Lucemon." The angel enjoyed being the center of attention, the dark-haired boy could tell. He also was not truly an angel, the boy would bet. To be sure, he looked like one, but he was not divine. He was no different than the creature asleep in the boy's lap, computer data with a soul. The suffix of his name betrayed this identity.

"Hullo, Lucemon," everyone intoned.

"I don't know how long it's been since my last great work of evil," the blond angel/data monster began earnestly. "Not that long. But I wasn't really evil. I was mad. Just because I had utopia all planned out and was ready to make everybody's lives better, they locked me up in the center of the world without even room to stretch my wings, the jerks! I was trying to save them! I almost did, once. I broke free, but I was stopped. Stopped—and killed. By humans. Why should they care what I was doing? It wasn't their world I was planning out…until they started making me mad, so I set my sights on that too." Lucemon pouted, the purple tattoo on his cheek standing vividly out. "They had to go and interfere when everything was working out so well!"

"Wait." Anyone who knew the dark-haired boy well would have instantly identified that single word as a portent of trouble to come. He always interrupted thusly when something bothered him, and he never did botherment halfway. If he had a problem, it was serious. He stood, clutching to his chest the green monster, who recognized the pending cloudburst suggested by the interjection. "You claim to have done no wrong…yet you sought to dominate the world?" Every word was deliberate, intense. His sensitivity had been ignited. _Lucemon, look out,_ thought the little green monster. _You have no idea what you're dealing with._

"For its own good!" snapped the angel, voice slithering in his anger in response to the boy's inquiry. "I would rule, and everyone would be happy, because I would make them be happy to serve me! Everyone happy: that means utopia!"

"Utopia is impossible!" retorted the boy. "All you sought was to brainwash others so you could increase your power, your control!" The hot blood throbbed through him, the temper he'd inherited from him older brother, one of many unintentional curses handed down from an unhealthy relationship. The other curses were a feeling of inferiority…and a worldview that only the very lonely can acquire.

"You know nothing of me!" Lucemon no longer seemed innocent; neither did the boy. Staring at his opponent with quickly-sparked hatred, the angel's light blue glance fell on the creature in the boy's arms. "That…" Lucemon gasped. "That's a…"

"He's my partner," replied the boy fiercely. "My partner and my best friend. My reborn salvation. Do not think I cannot understand you, your ambitions. You are not the only one who has ever thought to brainwash others for your own betterment. The name my parents gave me on Earth is Ken, Ken Ichijouji, but for several dark months your homeworld knew me as the Digimon Emperor." His shoulders heaved, but no tears fell from his burning stormcloud eyes; he had shed too many over this pain already and had told himself he would be rid of it. "The forces of darkness used me, Lucemon. They fed on my insecurities, my fears, my darkest desires, and created a monster where there had once been a human boy." He turned to the dark-robed man, who had been watching the quarrel with a calculating yet interested look in his unsettling golden glance. "You said you all had paid for your sins with your lives, or some such thing. Well, a life was paid for my mistakes, my weakness. It was not mine. I have wished it was. It was my partner's, and with his sacrifice I broke free of evil's dark hold on me, from the Dark Spore implanted in my neck by a cruel fluke of destiny. But I cannot blame the Spore for all my darkness. It merely enhanced what was already there, what had made me, even as a young boy, want my brother to die!"

There. He'd said it. He didn't know why; he never spoke of it expect in nightmares. But there it was, in the open, for these fallen men to pounce upon and rip apart. How well Ken understood their suffering! How he wanted to help them, for them to help him! That was why he'd come, to prove to himself he truly wasn't alone in his struggle to rinse himself clean. But instead of open-armed forgiveness, he'd found the seemingly unrepentant Lucemon rubbing salt in his wounds by sheer obliviousness. _See me for what I am, bickering elves, reticent man with the strangest eyes I've ever seen, innocently caustic angel. See me for the jealous, guilty…_

"Did he?" inquired the black-robed man lightly.

"Did he what?" asked Ken, though he knew what the man had meant.

"Did he die?" The man folded his hands inside his robes and looked straight at Ken, saw him through golden eyes with pupils shaped like hourglasses.

Ken swallowed. "I did not murder him," he replied, "but yes." _Sam, Sam, you left me alone, forced to fill the hole you left in everyone's lives. I cannot hate you, Sam, not any more, but why did you have to leave?_

"Then we are similar, Ken Ichijouji. You are not as alone as your face proclaims you fear to be. I too have suffered, unknowingly to him, at the hands of a brother. And, in an illusion, I killed him." The golden-skinned, white-haired, frail young man's voice was impassive, but mirrorlike shadows lurked behind the hourglasses in his eyes. "I killed my twin brother."

Lucemon interjected. "Twins! I hate twins! After I ate the world to prepare for utopia, two of the humans trying to stop me were twins. I killed one. Or I thought I did. Anyway, it made the other go insane, and he and his friends killed me. The idiots."

"I had…have…twin brothers," said Maedhros softly, but no one was listening. Lucemon had found someone new to pick on, and Maedhros's father was in shock over something the angel had said.

"You ate the world?"

"So what's your problem, twin? Aside from the obvious, of course. If that's a skin disease, keep it away from me!" Lucemon ignored the dark-haired elf and had turned his criticism to the black-robed man.

"Speak not of that," the man in question ordered harshly, but without raising his voice. "Are you blind as well as doltish? You provide yourself with enough vulnerabilities in your own personal appearance to make slinging insults a suicidal gesture. As for myself, this is the price…one of the prices…I paid for power. That is all. We all have paid our prices. We all have failed. We all, I should think, came here to learn from those failures. I will not concern you with my history, angelic demon; your simple mind would no doubt disintegrate from befuddlement mere minutes into it, and what a tragic loss that would be." Ken smiled despite himself. The sarcasm was barbed, to be sure, but also placed with the expert marksmanship of one used to slinging such a lethal weapon.

"Know only," the man continued, "that I, Raistlin Majere, fell from a great height, but not to the ruin of all. And, knowing that perhaps my descent led to the salvation of the world, I cannot regret it." He broke off, bothered once more by his persistent cough.

Sympathy welled up within Ken. He could tell that here, too, was someone who had been alone most of his life, both by his own doing and by the choices of others. Only, unlike Ken, he had not been simply overlooked, something inside him told the boy. He had been consciously rejected. And he had no Digimon partner to clear the demons away from his head and heart. Reaching into his pocket, Ken drew a small, paper-wrapped object out; he was strangely fortunate to have the things on his person, just getting over a cold himself.

He offered the small object to Raistlin. "Here. It'll help with the cough."

The black-clad man repelled his offering. "Trouble yourself not with me."

"It's no trouble." Ken was insistent. "You stood up for me."

"I did no such thing," replied Raistlin, but he accepted the gift. "What do you do with it?"

"You suck on it," replied Ken. Raistlin followed these instructions.

Maedhros walked into the cluster of people, a harried look on his face. "Right, well, we've met some more people. Ken…"

"Hullo, Ken," Maedhros's father and Lucemon said dully and cynically. Raistlin shot the angel a dark look, but the corners of his mouth twisted in a hint of a smile.

"..and Raistlin," finished the red-haired elf.

"Hullo, Raistlin." The golden-skinned man glared. The angel shut up, but only for a second. _He's just like a child,_ realized Ken. _A little, demented, self-absorbed child. But if he's not sorry, why is he here?_

"Honestly, you people interrupt way too much. Anyway, back to me. I wasn't alone all the time, like all of you seem to have been. I had Cherubimon helping me at first; then I had the Royal Knights. Until I killed them, which made me feel kinda bad. They had been trying. They just weren't good enough. Speaking of which, they're going to be late. I told them to come and see me during this meeting. They should be getting here right about…"

For the second time that day, the door exploded off its hinges.

"…now," finished Lucemon as the smoke cleared and everyone glared at him, then stared in shock at the two newcomers, monsters who had to bend nearly double in order to even enter the room, large though it was. Without knowing he did it, Ken activated the digivolution of his partner, and once more he was defended by the giant green insectoid. The newcomers eyed his partner suspiciously.

"Step away from the Lord Lucemon," ordered the creature covered in full-body, hot pink armor.

"Or what?" challenged Ken's partner, instinctively not liking the new duo. Ken ran a frantic hand through his navy-blue hair.

"Now, Stingmon, don't attack anybody, I'm fine…"

"Too late!" cried the other. "The slight has been done! We must fight for our honor and the safety of the Lord Lucemon!"

"No!" complained Maedhros loudly, but just like so many other times in his long, unfortunate, cursed existence, it was too late. The monsters were already fighting, though their movements were sorely hindered by the cramped quarters. Raistlin watched with great interest. After about five minutes of observing, Maedhros's father, letting out a long-suffering sigh, walked over to the door to fix it again. While looking for a hinge, he dropped his hammer on his foot.

"Scum of Morgoth!" he swore loudly.

Unfortunately, Lucemon's rather brawny white protector thought the insult, unfamiliar though it was, was nonetheless directed at him. "What was that?" he cried, his shrill voice rising and making both elves wince. Maedhros, seeing that unless he did something fast his father would become the next target of the easily offended Royal Knights, jumped between the Knights and the black-haired elf.

"Hey! I just remembered!" he cried desperately, grasping for something, anything to say before he lost his tenuous hold on his meeting and/or sanity. "We haven't finished introductions yet! Please, let's all sit down and do that! After everyone is introduced, you can feel free to continue your…ah…discussion." Ken's heart went out to the obviously frazzled elf; he too had come to this meeting with expectations completely different from the reality. _This is not the first time his carefully wrought plans have brought nothing but heartache. I have failed in the past, but I have succeeded as well. Has he ever had anything go right for him? _

Eyeing Maedhros dubiously, the Knights nonetheless ceased their assault at a nod from their Lord. Everyone sat back down, and the scene returned to more or less normality, except for the room's disarray and still-battered-down door. Raistlin settled on the floor next to Ken, rubbing his metallic-hued throat thoughtfully and in amazement. "My cough is gone," he said wonderingly. "Normally only my tea can dispel it. What magic…"

"No magic," Ken replied sincerely. "That was a Halls' Fruit Breezers. A cough drop."

"Incredible," whispered the golden-eyed man. Then both were silenced as Maedhros's father, amid the chaotic setting, began to speak.

a/n: Poor Ken. He should always have "poor" before his name. Anyway, I talked too much before the chapter so I'll make this disclaimer/explanation thingie brief. Lucemon is OOC…he's supposed to be far more sinister but for some reason I have this portrait of him as an "evil kender"-type and can't shake it. Also, some more clarification regarding him and Ken: while they are both from Digimon, they are from different seasons, which take place in different "digital worlds." So they both are actually never in the same world. But neither of them have any way of knowing that, so they both assume the other has been to the same "digital world." And the Royal Knights would have finished Stingmon off in no time, had they encountered each other in the actual show…but I needed them to buy time for Raist's cough drop to take effect. (Do they even have Halls' Fruit Breezers in Tokyo, Ken's hometown?)

Well, that wasn't very brief. I also successfully discounted everything I said in the past chapter, more or less. Now I have guilt over being so picky while watching the EE RotK. Oh well. If perchance missed anything, let me know and I'll add it to my already copious collection of Things Fetchie Screwed Up. Thanks.

See you in Chapter Four, coming soon from a nuthouse near you!


	4. The Brawl in the Hall

I'm going to reply to reviews first again, mostly because I'm struck with the beautiful irony of this situation. Before, the story for which I received the most reviews was "The Lord of the Rings: The Sequel: The Musical!" (which I had to remove from this site), and I only got 20 or so reviews for that when it was done (13 chapters, I believe). Now this, which I thought no one would find in a million years, obscurely located as it is, has almost that many and it's not even done yet! So thank you all! I wrote very verbose replies, as usual…

Sangfroid: Right now, the sequel is actually 3 stories called the "Phase Three Trilogy"…the REMSG suffers a schism yet also goes on a missionary-esque quest to save their homelands by reforming the people threatening them…Maglor acts as their Home Base Operator, which basically means the gods talk to him and he talks to the REMSG. Of course, before he can do this, they have to find him…Thank you for your compliments about Lucemon, by the way. I'm afraid I had to fudge a bit this chapter regarding him and the Royal Knights…but they're too powerful for the others to handle. Thus Lucemon conveniently forgets he knows how to shoot laser beams from his eyes, and Dynasmon doesn't resort to his usual course of action ("Breath. Of. WYYYYVEEERRRRN!")

Coolmarauders: Truer words were never spoken/written. But I'm not nearly doing the beauty, the splendor, the wonder that is Ken justice…he'll get a lot more active in the sequel. Of course, he is a reactive person by nature…which explains why Arukenimon could always provoke him so easily…I actually think, wonderful cutie that he is, that sometimes he has a shorter temper than Tai if you say the right things to him! (I'm assuming you've actually seen the show and were not just basing your comment on my interpretation. If you have never seen Digimon, sorry about all that and thanks for the compliment; Ken is supposed to be verrrry hot.)

Dalamar Nightson: I love Tamora Pierce! I actually met her last year…your suggestion intrigues and inspires me. Roger would be a perfect foil for Raist after the schism in the group in the sequel (I already have the rest of this one planned out so he'll have to wait two chapters). Charming, yet evil, and used to getting his own way so he'd tick off everybody else…and sneakier than all of them (except maybe Raist, though he can be _very_ straightforward about his plans if it suits his needs)…this is really gonna work well. Thanks!

Mirowood: I don't think that would help…it's a Jump drive problem. Pertaining to your Lucemon/Ken dilemma…do you mean you don't understand their relations to each other as members of the same show but different seasons, or their individual backgrounds? Pardon my obtuseness. And you're 100 right about poor Maedhros…I love the way you phrased "All he wanted…". And you sell yourself short on the 12 Angry Jurors thing ("sort of in"). I had NO lines in A Midsummer Night's Dream! You're a great actor and have come a long way; I'm still telling people how much I loved Damn Yankees.

Yael3000: Thanks! You too… you survived your first Finals Week! Fetch the closet elf says: "I wanted to go see Star Wars with the Fantasy Club, or to another party!" Fetchie the rabid fanfictioness says: "Sorry, closet elf, but what have I told you about going out in public? Every girl in your general vicinity either suffers a sighing fit or faints or both. It's annoying and rather embarrassing."

Wow, I just filled a whole page on Word with review replies! I didn't think that was possible…and just because something can be done doesn't mean it should be done…ah, I've made you wait long enough already, here's the next chapter. Oh, yeah: I own none of this.

The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, Chapter Four: The Brawl in the Hall

All eyes were fixed on Maedhros's father. The room was, for once, utterly silent, Raistlin's affliction temporarily assuaged by the Halls' cough drop. The dark-haired elf cleared his throat and began, irritated.

"My name is Curufinwe, but everyone calls me Feanor…"

"Hullo, Feanor," everybody said, bored with the procedure but following it anyway. Lucemon scratched his head behind his left ear-wing. This meeting had been _much_ more fun while his Royal Knights had been doing their thing. As Feanor began telling his tale, the angel let his small mind wander, trying to think of ways to spice the dullness up once again and make everybody pay attention to him, not the elf.

Unaware that one-seventh of his audience was lost in its own little world, Feanor stated his case. "I cannot say how long it's been since my last great work of evil because, to my knowledge, I have never done a great work of evil." His eyes flicked meaningfully over to Maedhros, who grappled for the right words to say.

"Never?.,.Refusing the demands of the Valar? Swearing the Oath? Slaying our kin when they would not obey our requests? Ignoring the divine Curse you brought on us all? Abandoning our friends to the cruel trek across the Ice, burning the very ships for which we spilled the blameless blood of our brethren? And you claim you have done _no_ great works of evil!"

"I did not let anything stand in the way of my goals," replied Feanor coldly. "When last I checked, that was not evil."

Father and son had been slowly moving closer together until they were finally almost touching noses. Filled with the electricity of extreme tension, the air around them seemed to crackle. Lucemon yawned, stifling it with his small hand. _Bo-ring. Why is everybody so interested in a stupid little family feud? It's mildly funny, but that's it. The crazy blue-haired boy looks really uncomfortable again—that's funny. Serves him right, the angry creep. And the weirdo with the strange skin and demented pupils…he looks like he can't decide whether he wanted to say no or yes to what the black-haired guy is saying._

Lucemon stood up, interrupting something Maedhros was ranting about how murder was evil and how it was Feanor's fault all of Maedhros's friends and brothers were dead because Feanor had convinced them some silly little Oath was a good idea. "Um, excuse me, but…why would we care about your problems?" the angel asked in unassuming honesty.

Mardhros looked at him, a little crazed. "Why?...because that's what we're here for!" he cried desperately. "This is a group therapy session! People come to share their problems to other people who've made the same mistakes and thus should be sympathetic! If you're unwilling to share…"--here he looked at Raistlin, who eyed him sardonically—"or if you're in denial…" –he met his father's angry gaze, then turned back to Lucemon—"or if you apparently aren't a Recovering Evil Madman at all, we should be able to help you with that! But you have to be willing to cooperate."

Lucemon pondered this, clicking his tongue against the backs of his teeth. "I could, but…I don't want to," he replied matter-of-factly. "I don't cooperate. Everyone is either with me or against me."

"THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE!" screamed Maedhros at the top of his frustrated lungs, upset at the way everything was turning out. No one likes to see their dreams deflate.

"Oh, my," remarked Raistlin almost to himself, "now we're getting existential." His sarcasm was not appreciated by the distraught elf, who glared at him. Raistlin returned the look, melting the redhead's defenses with his glittering golden gaze. Lucemon was suddenly jealous of the man's ability to stare down anybody, anywhere, any time. _If only I had hourglass eyes like that, _he thought grudgingly, _I'd look like a fool half the time but people wouldn't dare talk back to me. Sure, I shrink my pupils now before I attack, but where's the fun in that? All that does is make me look like I've stared into the sun too long. When I create utopia, I'll make him tell me how to get eyes like that. _Sighing and turning his attention elsewhere, he decided to answer Maedhros's question, rude as the elf had been by shouting.

"I'm…here…" he stated as slowly as possible to buy himself time, "be…cause…I…want…" He broke off, embarrassed but also irritated. "Okay, I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason but I don't know what it is exactly, I woke up after being reborn and found a flyer and thought 'Hey! That's me! And I'm bored anyway!' so I came!" He crossed his arms and pouted again, vexed at not being able to think of a good lie in time.

Raistlin nodded sagely in an infuriatingly knowledgeable way. "Sound logic. Indeed, I understand you much better now."

Jealous and offended, Lucemon retaliated. "Oh really? Last I heard, you were calling me an idiot. What's your new opinion?"

The black-robed man shrugged as if disinterested, but a cold light gleamed in his eyes. "You're still an idiot."

That did it. Pupils shrinking till they were mere specks in his robin's-egg blue irises, Lucemon propelled himself into the air. Beating the atmosphere furiously with his multiple pairs of wings, he hurled himself at Raistlin while forming a cross of sizzling energy between his hands. "Grand CROSS!" he yelled, releasing his attack. "Take that!" His shot missed his mark, however, as Ken tackled Raistlin to the ground, dragging him down to safety as the cross exploded into the wall, leaving a black smoking mark in the surface. As the angel gaped at his missed shot, metal-tipped fingers wrapped around him: Ken's partner, large once more, was taking matters quite literally into his own hands.

"Hey!" cried the prisoner in fright and annoyance. "Put me down!"

"Unhand the Lord Lucemon immediately, insubordinate insect!" commanded the white Royal Knight. "I, Dynasmon, order you to."

"And I, Crusadermon the beautiful, shall take my vengeance on you, sniveling wretch," loftily spouted the rose Knight as she used a large yellow ribbon-whip to wrap Raistlin up, pulling the captive man into the air and above her. "Not so high-and-mighty now that you stare into the face of true majesty, are you, yellow-eyed—uggh!" Raistlin dropped free to the ground as Crusadermon screamed in pain, a fireball blazing into her helmeted head. The black-cloaked man stared at his golden hands in amazement. "My magic is back…" he muttered in astonishment. "For how long?...No matter." Whirling, he faced his assailant, a fey light dancing around his hourglass pupils. A faint smile crept onto his face as the magenta monster crashed unconscious to the ground, armor scarred and pitted by flames. "Fizban may act like a babbling old fool sometimes," he said as if to himself, "but he is right about one thing. With the proper modifications, Fireball is a marvelous spell."

"Eh? Huh?" An old man poked his wizened head through the still-unfixed doorway. "There you go, mentioning that Fizban fellow again. How'd your meeting go?"

"Excellent," hissed the dark mage triumphantly yet harshly, staring at his defeated opponent. "I can't wait for next week." Then he doubled over, weak and coughing: even Halls' Fruit Breezers were powerless against the backlash of spell casting. Ken went over to see if he could help, but the man refused assistance. "Your concerns are misplaced," he told the boy. "Worry about your pet, not me."

Ken turned around. "Leafmon!" His partner lay on the ground, small again and in danger of being crushed by the gigantic Dynasmon. Ken started to run over, but Maedhros grabbed him by the arm. "Don't! You can't beat that thing," the elf cried.

"Let go of me," Ken told Maedhros forcefully.

"I won't. I won't have you getting hurt. You're the only one who even comes close to understanding what we're trying to accomplish here."

The boy sighed. "Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm sorry, but…" Twisting his body expertly, he wrenched his arm free from Maedhros and sent the elf sprawling to the ground in one fluid motion. "…I know judo," he finished, calling over his shoulder as he ran to pick up his fallen green friend. Feanor snickered and sidled to the door, which he began rather nonchalantly to repair as the old man shot fireballs at Dynasmon, who had trod on the old man's hat, and as Ken and Lucemon wrestled, the boy scattering the angel's feathers while grappling for a handhold. Replacing a bolt, the dark-haired elf happened to glance at the clock on the wall.

"It's time to go," he announced.

Everybody froze, the old man in mid-fireball and Ken clutching a handful of down. Maedhros blinked stupidly through a black eye at his father.

"Oh," gasped Lucemon, short of breath. "Okay." Ken let the angel go and they both stood, the latter brushing off his now-dirty white toga. "Come on, Royal Knights. Let's go find something else to do. See you all later. I had fun!" he added as he and his disgruntled, slightly singed bodyguards walked calmly out the door like nothing had happened. The others watched them go, Raistlin wheezing faintly in the silence. "Must…rest…" he whispered.

The old man supported him, and for once the man in black accepted the help. "Well, we're off," the elder announced cheerfully. "It's his naptime, now. Funny, isn't it, you getting your powers back temporarily like that? They'll be gone again now, I expect."

"Temporarily," Raistlin lamented through clenched teeth. "Just my luck." Leaning heavily on his elderly chaperone, he began to make his way out of the room, stopping briefly to clap Maedhros on the shoulder. "That went well," he told the elf, then collapsed, exhausted. The old man dragged him out of the room, Ken following to see if Raistlin was going to be all right. "Good-bye, Maedhros," the boy called, bowing in mid-stride. "I apologize for the judo throw and all the other trouble I caused."

Then the blue-haired boy and his "partner" were gone. Maedhros and Feanor were alone.

a/n: They got in a fight again, those nasty folkses. Again, apologies to Digimon fans, especially fans of the original Japanese version (in which the pink Royal Knight is, ah, male) but I've only ever seen the dub (sigh) so I have to stick to what I know; goodness knows I make enough mistakes as it is.

Raistlin regaining his magic (btw, this takes place between Summer Flame and the War of Souls) is a bit of a non-sequitur but I felt the guy should get one moment in the spotlight in which he isn't looking at people strangely or hacking up a lung.

One chapter left…and then the nightmare is over…so see you all for the Grand (?) Finale!


	5. The New Member

Here it is, The Final Chapter…of sorts. There's that sequel coming eventually, but as I'm researching one of the characters now it might take a while (but hopefully not more than a couple weeks). Review responses are going up here again, as the end of the chapter is dominated by my characteristic inane psychobabble otherwise known as author notes:

Mirowood: Thanks for the compliment about my action scene, though if you'd seen Frontier you might have felt differently…seriously, coming from you, a compliment about a battle means a lot. Raistlin's illness does indeed stem from his magic (and certain other sacrifices he made for it…but read the books for that info). Hope this is squabbly enough for you; it originally wasn't, but I have so many people telling me to have Feanor and Maedhros go at it that I just can't resist.

GuessWho: You got me! I actually was going to include an Author's Note about a cough drop probably not working on Raistlin in chapter 3, but my notes were getting so long it got cut. And you're also right about him not wanting to come…that's why Fizban is chaperoning him.

Sangfroid: Don't worry about being too nerdy; there is no such thing. My guitar is named Eldarion…I think that pretty much speaks for itself. Thanks for the comments about my sarcasm (I loved writing the dialogue) and for catching the typo; my brother actually was typing my manuscript at that point (I hired him while I had to do chores) and he's never read the Silmarillion. And yes, I am tormenting Maedhros quite a bit…my reasoning is that he can't escape the Curse even in death, so naturally everything he tries is going to go wrong. But he keeps trying; that family is known for their tenacity, after all…and for their argumentativeness, which is displayed, ah, down there at the actual chapter. And I love Ken's hair too; I had his haircut (if not his hair color) for years.

Coolmarauders: I couldn't agree more. Glad you're awaiting the sequel; I tie up a few loose ends from 02 in it, actually…but that's the last story in the trilogy, so until then Ken'll just have to put up with stuff not making sense. Which we all know he hates…why, oh why am I so cruel to my characters?

Yael3000: See my email to you…thanks for the compliment…and yes I want your story. Ten o'clock arrives, I have to make this short. Sorry.

Disclaimer: I don't own this. I make far too many mistakes and own far too few copyrights to claim ownership.

So now it ends…

The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, Chapter Five: The New Member

Throughout the history of the multiple planes of existence which constitute the universe, many individuals have toppled from grace into the darkness of ignominy. Realizing their wrongs, many of these strive to remake themselves as new, better people. One of these, Nelyafinwe Maitimo Maedhros Russandol son of Feanor son of Finwe High King of the Noldor, realized he was not alone in his struggle and sought to unite he sinful comrades in an attempt to unite them all. From this concept sprang a noble institution, the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, for which Maedhros had hopes most high indeed.

Unfortunately, they all came crashing down.

Literally.

Maedhros and Feanor stood alone in the room he'd rented for the gathering, the room people from all worlds and planes could visit if they needed the help. One wall was marked with an ugly smoking scar; most of the tables and chairs were overturned; there were scorch marks on the floor. Feanor, deliberately ignoring both the chaotic mess and his son, was busy reattaching the door. It had been blown off its hinges for the second time with the advent of the Royal Knights, the haughty bodyguards of Lucemon, the bratty, self-absorbed fallen angel whose provocations had led to the meeting's dissolval into little more than an every-man-for-himself rumble.

Maedhros stood amidst the ruins, a blank, distraught expression on his face. "It…I…" he stammered. "They wouldn't even listen to me!"

Feanor smiled smugly. "What of the way you refused to listen to me? Had you only taken my advice and forgotten this deluded concept when I told you to, you would not have come to such harm." The dark-haired elf was the only member of the Group who had emerged unscathed from the brawl; his son sported a rather colorful black eye.

"Had I refused to listen to you earlier, such measures would hardly have been necessary!" Maedhros cried, flinging his arms wide. "Yet you convinced me, deceived me, seduced me into Oathtaking against the very Powers to whom we owe our pathetic existences!"

"I hardly seduced you," retorted Feanor. He could afford to be pert with his son; such are the privileges of victors. "You rallied to my cause of your own free will and out of loyalty to your father, both noble causes. As to the supposed sins you and I committed in the hot-bloodedness of revenge, I say anyone in our place with any sense of pride and dignity would have done the same. You have grown into a philosophizing fool, my son. Almost am I glad you surrendered your birthright to my half-brother; for if the Noldor are indeed a ruined race, your rule would have brought their demise even more swiftly."

The arrow sped towards its target with deadly accuracy and pierced a heart already vulnerable. Rage and sorrow filled Maedhros in a wave of despair, and without knowing fully what he was doing he lashed out and struck his father squarely across the jaw. Feanor stumbled backwards into the only half-finished door, knocking it over again and falling down on top of it. Staggering to his feet, he lunged madly at his son, outraged by such a blow, but Maedhros had expected the assault and was ready. He met his father in midair and the two elves fell to the ground, rolling and wrestling in a manner not unlike how Lucemon and the boy Ken had grappled only minutes before.

Maedhros had more battle experience than his father, despite only having one hand. He quickly gained the advantage, and as the two lurched as one to their feet, Maedhros's right arm was wrapped around Feanor's windpipe with his left hand holding the armless hand in place.

"It's not true!" he howled through a haze of anger and tears. "It's not true, it's not true, it's…" The mist cleared, and he perceived what he was doing. With a gasp of horror, Maedhros released his father and collapsed to his knees. "Father, forgive me!" he wailed brokenly. "Forgive me, forgive me…"

"No, son." Feanor's words and tone were cold, but his eyes burned. "Never beg for forgiveness. Never turn your back on your objective. And never disobey me again. Surely you owe me that much." Stepping over his prostrate son, he strode back to the doorway and repaired it unhindered as Maedhros shakily gathered his wits and, quivering with fear and guilt, stood. "Owe you?" he gasped, but let it go. What would profit from another argument? Nothing. Only more wounds. Ah, too late did he realize his errors! Always too late. Perhaps it was better, after all, to be like his father, who never even realized he had erred at all, for in his mind no error had been made…

"Why I'm doing this for you I haven't the faintest idea," Feanor mumbled as he completed his work on the door, hoping to spark another tirade so he could put his son back in place again. The more he beat against Maedhros, the more likely it would be his abysmal waste of an "heir" would finally give way; his son was, after all, fighting a battle he could not win. With a dramatic flourish, he attached the final screw to the door.

With an equally dramatic flourish, the door promptly blew off again, except this time it shattered into a million pieces and sent father and son diving for cover. Smoke billowed in through the jagged doorway, carrying with it notes of an ominous melody as a tall, black-caped, masked figure swept in, flanked by rows of men in impersonal white armor.

"Duh-duh-duh, duh-DUH-duh, duh-DUH-duh…"

As the music dwindled away, the tall man's breathing could be heard quite distinctly, as a respirator mask made each inhale and exhale loud and pronounced. "Is this," he demanded in a deep, reverberating voice, "the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group?"

Maedhros was sorely tempted to say no, but he bowed his head and nodded. Feanor smiled again: victory, truly, was his.

"Yes," said Maedhros aloud, "though we were forced to…disband early. But we can hold another meeting," he added hastily as the white-armored men pointed strange lethal-looking tubes at him, their fingers poised above small black triggers. Maedhros was already dead, but he was also taking no chances. "State your name and how long it's been since your last great work of evil." _To Morgoth with the pledge,_ he thought. _My family really does have bad luck with Oaths._

"My name is Lord Vader…" boomed the tall masked man.

"Hullo, Lord Vader," Feanor whispered softly, his eyes glinting with spite for his son as he mocked the greeting practice. Maedhros was sorely tempted to strangle him again for such a wound.

"…and it has been five, no, make that six minutes since my last great work of evil."

Both elves stared. Vader looked at them expressionlessly, not a difficult feat considering his mask. Voice grating with irritation—and maybe a little embarrassment, though in such an imposing presence it seemed out of place—he explained:

"We were stuck in intergalactic traffic; there was a bulk freighter with a bad engine in front of us and we couldn't maneuver around. I grew impatient and gave the order to nudge it with the turbolasers, just to get it moving, only it didn't have its shields up. It was only after the mangled remains floated past that I realized what I'd done was evil, which I swore I'd given up after I died in my son's arms." Seemingly eager to talk about something else, he looked around. "Not a very expressive locale," he remarked, seeing the scorch marks, overturned furniture, and, of course, the long-suffering door defeated at last.

To Vader's dismay and surprise, this comment made the red-haired man with pointy ears in front of him give a broken cry and sink to the ground, his head resting on his knees and his one hand. As the redhead sobbed, the other person began to smile; then his face contorted and he sat down as well, putting his arms around the crier. "Such tears are fruitless," he said.

"Then it is fitting I cry them, for all I do comes to naught!" Maedhros wailed, feeling the same despair that had overcome him as he clutched the Silmaril and hurled himself into doom so many years ago. "I tried hard, I really did, and I had the Valar and the other worlds' gods on my side for once, they sent out word and transportation and everything, and still I failed! Are the fallen too lost to be saved? Am I? Oh, Father, Father, it's not your fault I fell, it's mine!" Turning his head, Maedhros cried into Feanor's shoulder, making the latter more than a little uncomfortable. He had just won a great victory in his mental duel with his son, and yet he felt somehow dissatisfied. _Maedhros may be a disappointment in many ways, but he is still my eldest son. He was apparently a warrior of great renown and a fierce enemy of Morgoth, and he did indeed fulfill the Oath when the others fell trying. He led his brothers well…or so they say. And he has never, ever, though he blamed me for his perceived condemnation, denied his identity. He has never denied his parentage. Never._ Feeling a little sad himself, Feanor hugged his distraught son a little tighter.

Vader watched awkwardly, seeing before him a scene he never had a chance to play properly except when the last wisps of life were leaving him: that of father and son, taking solace in each other's company. Inhaling and exhaling particularly loudly, he reminded them of his presence while wondering idly if it would be evil to use the Force to convince the redhead to stop bawling. "I was not aware this was such an…intimate establishment," he began.

Feanor looked up, realizing where he was and instantly becoming annoyed again.

"He'll be all right soon, sir," he told the Dark Lord. "He just needs counseling."

THE END (for now)

a/n: Yeah, yeah, so Darth's way OOC. I haven't finished all my research yet and don't quite have a grip on him yet. He'll be better for my sequel. Hey, you think this was bad, you should've seen my first draft. The explanation of the bulk freighter incident involved him screaming at the slow-moving vehicle "Dude, get in the grandma lane!" Don't look at me like that; my brother wrote the speech I put in the first draft, and while it was hysterical it also was waaay out of tone with the rest of the piece.

I hope the Feanor/Maedhros fight satisfies all of you more than it does me. I just couldn't make it funny for some reason, so it's really quite dark; we really see the reckless temper Maedhros has inherited (and his tendency to repent once there's nothing that can be done to help the situation; poor guy.) And don't worry, the moral of the story is NOT "Once you're evil, nothing can save you," because I don't believe that. Feanor and Maedhros are not quite done learning to have a normal familial relationship yet…that's why there's the Phase Three Trilogy, coming "soon" (note quotations).

So…see you all then for "The Schism," the first installment of the Phase Three Trilogy, in which the Group become missionaries…allergies and Maglor and prosthetic appendages and possession (of sorts) and magical duels and brats and waay too much paperwork (and far too long a spoiler)! Bye for now!


End file.
